


Stay Awake With Me ( You Know I Can't Just Let You Be)

by oppressa



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Captivity, Dubious Consent, F/M, Married Couple, Teasing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-04-14
Packaged: 2018-01-19 02:33:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1452259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oppressa/pseuds/oppressa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He should have known she'd never truly leave him in peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay Awake With Me ( You Know I Can't Just Let You Be)

**Author's Note:**

> Edited response to [this awesome prompt](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=239366#cmt239366) from the kink meme!
> 
> Set some time after the finale, I guess? Title by London Grammar.

He thinks he sits there for more than an hour in the dark on his own, before he squints blearily into the shadows of the room and realises he's not. He throws his weight against the ropes securing him to the chair, but the knots are too complicated to be escaped from, they'd need to be untied and Athos holds no hope in the woman walking towards him. He knows her prior to the candle on the table beside her lighting her deceptively angelic face, recognises her scent and the way she moves, coiled to strike.  
  
“Anne.” He says, the name cut off in a pained intake of breath as she backhands him.  
  
He grunts and attempts to pretend it doesn't affect him, although he's furious, and she can surely tell.  
  
“I'll hit you every time you call me that.” She replies mildly, delicate fingers lifting his chin to inspect the damage.  
  
 _Milady_ , then. That's what she wants to be known as, now, but he won't give her the satisfaction. His eyes drift away from her to fix at some distance on the wall. She lets him go with a lingering stroke to the cheek and picks up the bottle from next to the guttering flame.  
  
The wine tastes strange, making him pull a face and wonder what in God's name he's doing, letting her give him drink.  
  
“What's the point of this, Anne?” He sighs, inviting it.  
  
She smiles, and true to her word, slaps him again, this time with the flat of her palm.  
  
“To remind you you're mine, of course. I hope your moments of power over me were sweet, because you'll not be enjoying any more.”  
  
  
He only stirs again when she gently pushes the hair out of his eyes.  
  
“I notice you've lost my locket, Athos.”  
  
“I dropped it. Intentionally.” He wishes he could add that he'd crushed it under his heel.  
  
She arches a perfect eyebrow, spitting bitterly, “Oh. Finally _forgot_ about me, did you? We'll see.”  
  
All she's doing is seeking to withdraw a response. She calls him _dear one_ , _my love_ , _husband_ , as her hand slips into his breeches, and he bites his tongue, trying to blank his mind of everything that's gone between them. She pets his stomach and his thighs, fingers ghosting over his small clothes, nowhere near his cock until she's sure it's stiff. Then her knee brushes against it, and he lets his head fall back, defeated.  
  
“Beg for it.” She says, her mouth at his lips.  
  
“Never.”  
  
She laughs, and leaves him, hard and wanting and so fucking hungry.

 

She is disappointed about the missing locket, truly. And though she relishes his anger it's a little frustrating he's not yet chastened, but she can wait. Anne has a long history of biding her time.

“I told you not to return under pain of death.” He did, and it was a merciful yet stupid decision. “God damn you, Anne.”

“You told me not to return to France.” She reminds him, facing away, standing at his back. “Who says we're in France?”

“How long--” He starts, obviously not really wanting to ask. She steps up behind him, curls her fingers around his neck where the scar he gave her marrs her own, and he stares up at her with just a touch of fear in his eyes. He's grown ever so wild and dishevelled since he was her Comte.

“Am I planning to keep you here?” She finishes, squeezing slightly. “I haven't quite decided.”

She does know, though. She wants it to get to the point where she'd cut him loose and he'd come back of his own accord, only to find her gone, the place entirely deserted.

 

The expensive silk of her dress brushes against his legs as she straddles him, which is a mistake. It's the end of the second day now, and Anne can't help but wrinkle her nose after lowering it below his ear.

“You smell terrible.” She murmurs, suppressing a wince at the odour of horse, and of the road, and the wine she's plied him with a few times on his breath.

“You haven't let me wash.” That much is true. She hasn't let him move from the chair in which he's bound, and he must be awfully sore on top of everything else.

“Then let me apologise for my bad hospitality.” She rolls her hips against him, ever so slow, watches him try not to swallow. “What would you like, my darling? Food, water, a bath. All you have to do is ask.”

His mouth stays firmly shut, and she kisses it, admiring his resilience. Very well. She brought him here to punish him, after all.

 

The next time she visits, she's angry again, pulls his hair almost out of his scalp, rakes her nails down his chest and back. Then she rubs something into the scratches that stings so bad he has to curse and squirm.

“Do you believe your friends will find you?” She hisses. “They won't. Not here. I have powerful allies on my side, you've no idea.”

“You always do.” He tries to sound tired of her, because he is, he _is_ , you can only play the same trick so many times. “Whoever they are, I doubt their patronage will last as long as the Cardinal's. Everyone discovers your true nature in the end.”

“Richelieu knew my true nature.” She says, baring her teeth. “Not everyone is as much of a blindly trusting fool as you.”

 

Later on she carries in the pot, unties everything except his hands and says, “Get up.”

He does, consciously quiet, not wanting her to change her mind. She sets the bedpan at his feet, unbuckles and unbuttons him, and turns away. It's fucking humiliating to piss with her barely ten feet from him but he supposes the alternative is worse.

Afterwards, he can't imagine he's allowed to turn around without getting stabbed or being forced to his knees. He looks over his shoulder and she's no longer where she was. Her arms circle his midriff, holding him close, head resting on his shoulder. His limbs ache just enough, and the position is so familiar, that he leans back into her touch. If he closes his eyes, it's six or seven years ago, their marriage is a happy one and everything is right with the world.

“Who else is here?” He seeks information he can use, which is what any of the others would do, but then none of them would be in this situation, none have such an attachment to a lady they wronged who would pursue her revenge to the ends of the earth.

“It's just us, my love. Come and sit down. I have something for you.”

While his back was to her she'd put a plate of food on the table, a bowl of water. He's suspicious of it yet she keeps her word, leads him there and feeds him, tips the glass to his parched mouth till it's empty. When she takes it away he licks her fingers for more, having possibly lost his mind along with his dignity, and she permits it.

He thought he'd gotten somewhere towards securing his release, but in the morning, she sweeps away from him again, locking the door behind her.

  
She presses the wet cloth to his face, and he's roused from sleep immediately. A rude awakening, perhaps, but at least it's _warm_ , she's not _cruel_. This is something she used to do for him some evenings at la Fere, to soothe the strain in his muscles after he came in from a late ride.

“Did you go to bed with that ridiculous Comtesse?” She asks as if on the off chance, in the middle of a conversation.

“Did you?”

Touché. She loves him like this. She remembers his expression on seeing her at de Larroque's trial, his _rage_. She likes him like that, too, though he won't show her that side easily, so she has to draw it out, the loss of control. She carries on washing him till he looks more himself, unkempt yet clean.

“She called you handsome _,_ my god. Maybe you are, but I'll bet you see your monster of a brother in the mirror every day.”

His wrists twist behind his back. “Thomas wasn't a monster.”

“He damn well was.” She asserts, “You just always looked the other way.”

“I know what you're doing.” He murmurs, “There's really no need. I've already borne the guilt with me for years.”

“Yes, I'm aware.” She snaps sarcastically, edging the flannel less than carefully along his collarbone. “You've denied yourself happiness and pleasure for so long.”

“I thought you were _dead_.” His voice breaks on the most emotional word.

Her face hardens. She isn't looking for sympathy any more than absolution. She tears her necklace off, lets him see the ugliness of his justice. He bows his head, traces his lips light as a feather against her scarred skin, still he won't say sorry, won't forgive or forget, no more than she will.

 

He's fussing as she examines the area where the scrapes she laid on him are healing despite her original intention not to let them. Her thumbs brush across his nipples, making him twitch. She pinches one, rough and impersonal, then draws her thin blade with the deadly sharp edge, pricking his ribs.

“Come on. We're going for a little walk.”

The light is failing in the cold corridors. He stumbles along ahead of her, letting her direct him with an occasional prod from the knife. Maybe he's resigned himself to the belief she's finally going to put him out of his misery. She takes him to the bed chamber, which is not very much like their old room where she set the fire, but he still realises the significance, balks at the door.

“In.” She whispers. “Or I'll lead you through by your cock.” She lays her hand on him, grips him tightly through the material of his breeches. He steps over the threshold, trips and hits his head on the frame with what sounds like a sickening crack.

She seizes his elbow to set him upright, props him in the open door way. In her concern she disregards the fact that he is not a clumsy oaf who falls over his own feet, even when blind drunk.

“Are you all right?”

He nods, groaning slightly as she presses her palm to his forehead. She cannot feel blood but there might be a cut under his hair, nothing is for certain in the half-dark. She casts caution aside, raises the knife again and saws through the bonds crossing his wrists behind him.

Instantly she's whirled around, pressed against the wall inside. He pins her hand with an inexorable force, and the dagger falls from it, clattering on the floor. _Clever Athos, saving your strength_ , she has to admit to herself. _Never thought you'd fool me twice_. His hands grasp her thighs hard enough to bruise, bunching up her skirts. Anne can practically see the sense of duty warring with lust in his eyes. It's plain that through his hate, he still desires her. Any man would, but this is her husband she continues to _love_ , no matter how poisoned and reluctant the sentiment's become.

“I should drag you out of here by your hair to face justice.” He growls in her ear, echoing her words.

“Do it.” She says, as he did in a smoke-edged rasp at the burning mansion. “Do it, then.”

He lets her drop, muttering she is a bitch without parallel, and bends to pick up the shining knife.

“Get on the bed.” He orders, the tone of his voice pitched lower, like the night he grabbed her in the square, when he pretended to be bordering on madness. She has no choice except to let him take her there, if that's what he wants. He's only really hurt her the once. No one's ever managed to cause her that much pain again.

She backs away from him and settles on the edge, spreading her hands to smooth the coverlet on either side. He looks from her to where he has clenched the hilt in his fist, and back, his face clouded like a man in a dream.

“You won't use it?” She asks calmly, “I would if I were you.”

He shakes his head and comes to sit along side her, sighing. He touches her wrist where he almost broke the delicate bones. She lightly digs her nails in to his own as a warning, to break his reverie and make him glance up at her.

“No, please.” It's beyond ironic that he's begging now, when he could go at any moment. “Please, I just need...” He lifts her hand and tenderly presses the fingertips to his lips, one by one.

She suddenly understands what he means. He doesn't want to fight, just to make love as they once did, free from enmity, neither of them coerced or unwilling participants. No more teasing, no more games. She cups his jaw with her other hand and draws him in.

The sex is soft and compassionate in a way she hasn't wanted since the last time she slept with him.

Later, lying naked, she waves at the ceiling, indicating the room in general. “Do you like it?” She asks. He gives her a searching look, as if she cannot really mean what he thinks she does.

“I can't _stay_ here, Anne.”

“I know.” She rolls her eyes, tolerating the name. “Nothing is forever.”

He falls asleep in her arms, and she lets him rest, enjoying the sheer nearness of him. When he wakes he may want to run back to his precious regiment straight away. Or he may yet linger a while, she could make amends sending him off on a full stomach. She knows how to cook a good breakfast, she wasn't always a lady, and needs no servants to cater to her as they had in their house. But that is a play of domesticity they can never have again, a fanciful journey to the past through a window that has smashed irreparably. He will leave as soon as he wishes to, perhaps without even bidding her farewell. She must be content to watch him, in the knowledge he will not apologize for the wrongs he has done her and neither will she, for what she is, until such time they die.


End file.
